Page 28 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“D o be careful, Isabella,” Christine called, her voice high pitched with concern. “You are veering too close to the ledge…”

“Do not worry,” Edwin said, smiling wryly, gazing at her across the picnic blanket. “Even if she gets too close and falls, it is not far. She will not hurt herself badly. And she will learn a valuable lesson.”

Christine huffed but relented, a small, self-deprecating smile curving her lips. Edwin’s gaze caught on it—those dimples that crept in when she smiled always undid him. He clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the maddening urge to reach out and trace the shape of her mouth with his fingers.

God , she was endearing. Disarming. And she didn’t even know it.

But he knew if he did that, then he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing her…and then he would want to drag her behind the bushes to have his wicked way with her. Once again.

I am utterly enthralled by her. As besotted as a youth who has just discovered the joys of the opposite sex.

He turned away from her with difficulty, seeking out his youngest daughter. Finally, he spotted Beatrice standing in the shallows of a stream. She had taken off her boots and hitched up her skirt, staring intently into the water.

Undoubtedly, she was searching for tadpoles. He had told both his daughters that they might catch some today if they were lucky.

He sighed deeply, stretching out on the picnic rug, his eyes drawn to the sky above. It was a soft, luminous blue, like a painting he’d once seen, but could never quite replicate.

The gentle warmth of the sun kissed his skin, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to simply be .

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so content—so free. It was as though, in this moment, the world had slowed just enough for him to breathe, to exist without the weight of everything pressing down on him. And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with her.

Quickly, he sat up, shaking himself. He was in danger of falling asleep if he wasn’t careful, of slumbering in the sun like a lazy cat, and that wouldn’t do at all.

“What a beautiful day,” Christine sighed, gazing at the sky. “And what a perfect way to welcome the changing of the season—a picnic.”

She gave him a dazzling smile, which quite took his breath away. He actually felt it lodge in his throat.

“I cannot wait for summer,” she added excitedly.

“It is not summer quite yet, little mouse,” he replied, in a teasing voice, once he had recovered his breath. “There is still a week to go before the first day of June arrives, you know.”

He paused, leaning slightly toward her, his eyes drifting over her with a quiet intensity.

She was stunning—absolutely breathtaking. Today, she wore a delicate, lacy white morning gown that seemed to glow against her skin, the fabric soft and ethereal. Tiny white flowers, like scattered stars, nestled in her dark golden hair, catching the sunlight in a way that made her seem almost otherworldly.

She looked like a vision, as if she had stepped out of a Botticelli painting, timeless and perfect.

“I do not care,” she said, her smile widening, throwing herself back onto the picnic blanket, her arms wide, as if she were trying to hug the whole world. “ Not quite summer is nearly summer—which means it might as well be here. Besides, nature does not understand our calendar.”

“Probably not,” he said, lying down again, propping himself on one arm, and staring at her. “Tell me—why are you so excited for summer?”

She turned to him, her blue green eyes glinting in the sunlight. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows as she contemplated the question.

“I like the way it stays light until quite late in the day,” she said eventually, absent mindedly picking one of the daisies which were scattered through the grass, a dreamy look on her face. “I like when the bees arrive to collect their nectar from the flowers. I like swimming, and collecting wildflowers, and watching butterflies.” She drew a deep breath. “And picnics, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling at her, before nodding at the large brown wicker basket in the middle of the rug. “That was what I assumed, since this picnic was your suggestion.”

“I love picnics,” she said, sighing deeply. “They were my favorite thing in the world when I was a child.” She frowned slightly. “My mother also adored picnics—it is one of my most vivid memories about her.”

“How old were you when she passed?”

“Only six years old,” Christine replied, her voice thick with the weight of the memory.

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she forced a soft laugh, brushing them away as if to shield the pain.

“She loved the games at picnics—egg and spoon races, sack races… simple things that made her so happy.” Her voice faltered, the smile fading as she sighed deeply, the air thick with the loss. “It felt like… like all the color drained out of our world when she passed. Father turned distant, cold—almost like he didn’t even see me anymore. His entire focus turned to Violet, as if I never existed.”

He reached out, taking her hand, stroking it gently. “Thank you for telling me about her. I can see it is difficult for you.”

She laughed in a self-conscious way, brushing a fly away. She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, turning her hand over, staring at her palm. “The past is always a part of us.”

“What about you?” She took a long, deep breath.

His mouth twisted into a grimace, the muscles in his jaw tightening as the weight of her words settled between them. A long, charged silence stretched out, thick with things left unsaid.

She met his gaze without flinching, her eyes steady, unwavering. Finally, he exhaled, the sound low and resigned, as though he’d been holding it in for far too long.

“It is a long story,” he said, his eyes flickering around, searching for the twins. Both Isabella and Beatrice were picking wildflowers, now, making daisy chains, hanging them in each other’s hair. “My father cast my mother out of the castle when I was eleven years old, disowning her entirely. I never saw her again.”

“What?” Christine gaped at him in astonishment. “But…why? What did she do to warrant such harsh treatment?”

His heart tightened. He stared at her hand in his, tracing the faint lines of it in his mind, the whirls and dips, the pattern on the hand, that was uniquely hers, that could belong to no other person.

“He discovered that she gave birth to a child out of wedlock before they were wed,” he replied eventually. “It was all hushed up, of course. She had been sent to a nunnery to have the child and then absorbed back into society once it was born. Apparently, the child was stillborn. It never even drew a breath.”

Christine gasped. “Oh, my dear Lord. Your poor mother, losing a child in such a way.”

“She never spoke of it,” he said, his mouth twisting again. “I had no idea it had ever happened.” He hesitated. “Apparently, it was just after her own father had died, and my father was going through some paperwork and discovered an old letter from the nuns at the convent, informing my grandfather how my mother was faring in the last trimester of her pregnancy.”

“But why did your father cast her out? Did he not ever think to let the past rest?”

Edwin shrugged, his face as hard as granite. “Perhaps he was looking for an excuse to do it. He had tired of her—although he never married again.” He paused. “He never told me his reasons. After she left, it was as if she had never even existed.”

Christine looked sad, staring at him with huge eyes, shining with tears. “Did you ever search for her?”

“I did,” he said, tracing the lines on her palm with one finger, following where his mind had just trodden. “I tried looking for her during my years in Cambridge, but my father found out and he…”

“What?”

He let out a long exhale. “He beat me for it. Said my mother was a disgrace to our family and I shouldn’t besmirch our honor by seeking her out.”

“That is beyond cruel. I am so sorry, Edwin.”

He shrugged, “It was how he was. Only after he passed, over ten years ago, and I finally inherited the title and the duchy, did I resume my search for her.”

“And?”

He turned slowly, his gaze drifting over the landscape that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember. The rolling green hills stretched out before him, dotted with cows lazily grazing in the distance. Wildflowers bloomed in untamed clusters—primrose, dog violet, wood anemone—each one vibrant and free, much like the land itself.

He knew every inch of it, every bend in the creek, every rustling of the trees.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the quiet rush of the water and the gentle twittering of birds fill his senses.

The world around him was serene, almost sacred. And yet, it was the presence beside him that truly grounded him, the soft weight of her tiny hand clasped within his own, her touch an anchor in the midst of everything. The simple connection stirred something deep in him, something he hadn’t realized he’d been starved for. Her warmth, her presence—it was as comforting as the landscape itself.

“I traced her life after she left Ironstone,” he answered eventually. “Everyone abandoned her. Her own family never spoke to her again. She found work as a seamstress in a village at the far north of Scotland but fell ill with consumption. She died only a few years after she was cast out of our lives.”

“I am so sorry,” Christine whispered, her voice soft but filled with sincerity as she squeezed his hand gently.

Her eyes met his, full of compassion, and she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his pain.

“I’m sorry for everything your father did to you, for the hurt he caused. For the things he couldn’t undo… and for the years you and your mother lost. You never deserved that.” She paused, her gaze lingering on him with a quiet understanding. “I’m sorry you never got the chance to reconcile with her.”

His heart felt oddly light. He had never spoken in depth about the tragic story of his mother—not even to Oliver. It had always resided in a small, tight cage in his heart, never to be released.

Until now. Until this moment…with her.

He gazed at her, his heart skipping a beat. It seemed the capitulation was complete. He had surrendered to his overwhelming desire for her, making love to her at long last, and it had been like nothing he had ever experienced before. The closeness he felt in those moments when he was with her were almost sacred, in a way he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

He loved making love with her. Every touch, every kiss, felt effortless, as if they were two halves of a whole, finally coming together.

The passion between them was undeniable—white hot, all-consuming—but there was something more, something deeper that anchored him to her. It was a protectiveness he hadn’t known he was capable of, an overwhelming urge to shield her from anything and anyone who might harm her—something he’d only reserved for his daughters.

He had never felt that way for a woman before—not like this, not with such intensity. Certainly not with Rose.

He wanted to cherish Christine. He felt like he never wanted to let her out of his sight. He just wanted to be with her constantly.

It was expansive. It was incredible. And it was very frightening.

Confused, he stood up, gazing down at her. “The day is getting away from us,” he said slowly, extending his hand to her. “Shall we catch some tadpoles?”

She smiled, jumping to her feet, and took his hand. “I would love to.”

They retrieved the empty jam jars they had procured from the kitchen for that purpose, walking hand in hand towards the creek, where the girls were playing a clapping game together.

He gazed at them, swallowing a painful lump in his throat, taking in their sunlit dark hair catching glints of mahogany, the daisy chains encircled like garlands on their heads. Their sweet voices rang into the air, their hands moving faster than lightning, as they clapped.

“ Oranges and lemons

Say the bells of St. Clement’s

You owe me five farthings

Say the bells of St. Martin’s… ”

He had never felt more present with them than at this moment. He turned and looked at Christine, flushed and rumpled from the sun…and their lovemaking early that morning, when light had streamed through his chamber windows, bathing their naked bodies in a golden glow.

“Let’s catch some tadpoles!” he declared, grinning, holding up an empty jam jar.

The girls stopped their game, squealing in delight, running toward them. The next moment they were all knee deep in the creek, peering into the water, searching for the tiny, quicksilver creatures.

“Oh,” cried Isabella. “I see some! Over here!”

They waded toward where his eldest daughter stood in the water, the cool current swirling around their ankles. But just as they reached her, Beatrice swayed, reaching out instinctively for Christine, who teetered dangerously on the edge of losing her balance.

“Careful!” Christine exclaimed, her voice tight with alarm as she tried to steady herself.

In an instant, they were both wobbling, and before anyone could react, Edwin reached out, grabbing Christine to steady her. But the force of the movement was too much. Isabella, too, caught up in the scramble, reached for them both, and in a flurry of arms and laughter, they all tumbled backward.

“Wait, no—!” Beatrice’s surprised shout was cut off by the splash.

The world seemed to tip sideways before they landed with a huge splash, the water rushing over them in a chaotic but somehow exhilarating flood.

For a moment, there was a deathly silence. Then, almost as one, they erupted into laughter.

“Well,” Christine gasped between giggles, wiping water from her face, “I suppose that’s one way to cool off.”

Edwin, lying on his back in the shallow water, let out a hearty laugh of his own.

“I didn’t plan on a swim today,” he said, his voice full of amusement, “but here we are.”

Isabella, clutching his arm for balance, sputtered, “I think we’ve officially ruined the picnic!”

“And the picnic clothes!” Beatrice added, laughing and shaking water from her hair.

Edwin took a deep breath, lifting his head slightly to look around at them.

“You did not, my dears,” he smiled at them.

And he didn’t care. Not one whit.